Redeeming Cupid
by SomewhereApart
Summary: Calleigh had given up on Valentine's Day until she fell for Eric Delko.


You'd given up on Valentine's Day before you fell for Eric. You'd spent too many alone or disappointed, and you'd finally accepted that maybe that romantic guy you'd always dreamed would come sweep you off your feet was a fantasy. The unfortunate byproduct of romance novels and Disney soul mate culture. Imagine your surprise, then, when Eric had pressed his lips to your temple and asked quietly if he could take you to dinner on Saturday. If it hadn't been for Valera's text-message invite that afternoon to her annual (at least when it applied to her) Hot Single Ladies Who Don't Need Men party, you might have forgotten altogether that Saturday was Valentine's Day.

You told him yes, of course, because even though you aren't dating Eric Delko yet, it certainly can't be said that you're just friends. Whatever has been building between you, slowly unfolding over the last few months, years, is finally coming to fruition – at the same snails' pace its taken all along. Ever since your stint in the hospital, though, things have been different. You've been on medical leave for the last two weeks, and he's been stopping by almost daily to keep you company. He's spent the night a few times – on your couch, too tired to drive home after one of your movie marathons. He's kissed you properly, but only once, right before he asked you to be his Valentine's Day date. He hasn't tried again, and you think that should trouble you, but it doesn't. It has given you time to process, time to think, time to decide what you really want with him, and for that you're eternally grateful.

What you want, you've discovered, is everything. A terrifying prospect, but you'd be lying if you didn't admit that you think Eric could be your long-haul guy. You wouldn't risk your friendship over this if he weren't. So of course you told him yes. You let him pick you up, blushed sweetly when he kissed your cheek and handed you two exquisite roses – one red, one white. He told you he couldn't decide which one you'd like more, and you told him they were both beautiful, that you loved them. And then he blew your mind.

Dinner is at a restaurant so exclusive and expensive that you know he must have been planning this for months, and the idea that there is a man out there who has spent the better part of the last year trying to figure out how to romance you makes you think twice about the frivolity of all those romance novels and Disney movies. You talk through dinner, and it's wonderful. Easy. It's you and Eric, after all, date or not. He orders champagne, the good stuff, and you drink a little bit more than you probably should, but you're not driving and you've already decided how you want this evening to end, so you tell yourself its okay to load up on a little bubbly for courage.

You spend dessert half-distracted by your plan to seduce him, which isn't so much a plan as an idea, a goal, and as you worry to yourself that maybe you should have actually had some kind of a plan in place, he spoons up some of the crème brulee and reaches across the table to feed it to you. It's just the kind of ridiculously romantic thing you've always wanted someone to do on Valentine's Day, and as you smile and nibble the dessert off his spoon you decide to forget about planning. This relationship was never in your plans anyway, so how good could your planning skills really be, if they managed to overlook the fabulous man right in front of you for all these years?

He pays, and you know better than to argue over the check, because he _has_ planned this, and you've decided to respect that. It isn't until he's driving you back to your place that tension creeps in, eking out all the air in the car, slowing your conversation, and by the time he pulls into your drive, you're nervous, fiddling with the roses on your lap, mouth suddenly dry.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask him, and he nods, smiles slightly and kills the engine. You get out of the car before he can come hold the door for you; romance or not, you're still too much of an independent woman to actually wait for him to make his way all the way around the car just to do something you can easily do yourself. He must know this, because he stops and hovers near the front of the car, waits for you to join him and then follows you to the door. He stands just a little too close as you fish your keys out of your purse, and you wish he would touch you, wish he'd let loose some of that patient control he always seems to have with you lately and put his hands on your hips, or brush your hair aside and kiss your neck. Anything to reassure you that you're not about to fall flat on your face.

He doesn't though, and once you're inside, you have no idea what to do with him. You feel ridiculous, because you've had plenty of men (okay, not _plenty_, but enough) in your home for just this reason, and you've never felt this unsure. You lead him into the kitchen for reasons unknown. It's neutral territory, you suppose, but once you're there, you have no idea what to say or do. At least in the living room, you could have suggested a movie, but there's nothing of use in the kitchen. You just ate, after all.

To kill time, you set your purse on the table, tug out your phone and scroll quickly through your missed calls and texts – your dad left a voicemail, but you'll listen to that later. Valera texted twice – once to ask where the hell you were, and then demanding to know all the details of your hot sex adventure (because why else would you miss her party?) when you get back to work on Monday. You smirk, and he leans against the table next to you, asks what's funny as you tuck the phone back into your purse.

"Valera has this party every year on Valentine's Day. Champagne and cupcakes and chick flicks. I never RSVPed, so she's wondering who I am having 'hot sex adventures' with." Your gaze flicks to his and you smile, watching him try to figure out just how to take that, just how to reply.

He settles on a low chuckle, then reaches out to brush the hair off your shoulder and skim his fingers down your arm. You shiver, then blush a little, turning your body to face his. "You look incredible tonight," he murmurs, and you feel your cheeks heat even more. Who knew Eric Delko could turn you into such a blusher?

You tell him thank you, then let your fingers lift to fiddle with the lapel of his suit jacket and tell him he doesn't look so bad himself. And then, thank God, he leans in and kisses you. Just like the first time, it's soft and sweet, but this time you steal a second and a third, taking the small step to close the distance until your bodies brush, and when he moans softly and finds your hips with his hands, your knees go a little weak. Your brain splits time between enjoying the feel of those oh-so-full-and-sexy lips on yours and trying to figure out how to get the two of you from the kitchen to your bedroom without having to separate, but he makes your calculations null and void when he pulls away gently and looks down, skimming his palms up your nearly-bare back.

"I love this dress. It's torture." He smirks at you, just a little, and you can't tell if he's nervous, which makes you even more nervous. All you can think to say is "yeah?" which sounds dumb as it reverberates in the air around you, but what can you do? You've already said it. He just nods, one hand settling at the base of your spine, the other moving to trace his fingertips lightly along the halter strap of your dress. "Couldn't keep my eyes off you."

"I know," you smile softly, and you're surprised to find that you've wound your arms around his waist – when did you do that, you wonder? "I liked it."

His quiet "mm" precedes his lips on yours and you're back to calculating the steps of this particular dance, but as he feathers those kisses down from your mouth, along your jaw, you begin to lose the ability to think rationally, and all you can say is his name. At least, you think that's all you can say, but your brain proves you wrong a moment later when it somehow orders your mouth to speak, and what comes out will either result in death by embarrassment or make things a whole lot easier: "Make love to me, Eric."

He freezes for just a moment, but a moment is long enough to deduce "death," and you swallow hard and pull away just a little, intent on backtracking. Before you get a word out, his mouth is on yours again, hushing you. "Are you sure?" he asks, and your heart flops over helplessly. You nod, but it isn't enough for him. "You're sure its not the champagne talking, because you had a few glasses, and I know it doesn't take much to-"

It's your turn to shut him up with a kiss, but yours his hotter, more insistent, and when it breaks you're both breathing a little more heavily. "I'm sure. I've been sure since you asked me to dinner."

He swallows, nods, steals another kiss – softer again, and you wonder if that's how he likes things. Soft, and slow, and sweet. It's not what you expected from him. You don't particularly mind, though, and when he's finished nibbling on your lower lip in a way that turns your knees to jelly, you thread your fingers with his and lead him toward your bedroom.

His palm is just a little damp, and you find that comforting because it's your first real clue that yes, he might be nervous too. Your pulse is jumping, ratcheting higher with each step you take, and you order yourself to take a slow, deep breath as you step into your bedroom, making your way to the bed. You turn to him then, finally, and you think maybe you should say something, but you don't know what. He saves you again by threading his fingers into your hair and kissing you, and you bite the bullet and busy your hands with pushing his jacket off his shoulders.

He only allows you one arm at a time, one hand always cupping the back of your skull as his mouth heats up, tongue tangling eagerly with yours. You fiddle anxiously with the bottom button of his shirt, but don't release it quite yet. You're hesitant again, not because you don't want this, or because you think it's not right, but because now that you're here you realize that you're about to see Eric Delko naked, and that more importantly – he's about to see _you_ naked. And you're going to be kissing and touching, and his hands will be on your breasts and between your legs and its _Eric_, who you've known for years, but never like this. You used to say he was like your brother, if your brother was hot and Cuban and looked good in a wetsuit. And sure, there had been moments, and dreams, and the occasional midday fantasy, but that was different. That wasn't this, wasn't his fingers ghosting down your spine and making you shiver as goose bumps flare over your skin. Wasn't his palm skating around to your belly, then rising to cup your breast tentatively, thumb seeking out your hardened nipple through the thin fabric of your top and teasing over it lightly.

And he must sense your sudden hesitation, because he tips his mouth away from yours for a breath and asks quietly if this is okay, swirling his thumb over you again. You nod, steeling your resolve, and press your mouth to his again so he doesn't notice the way your fingers are trembling as you began to unbutton his shirt, bottom to top. Before you can push it off his shoulders, though, he turns to sit on the bed, drawing you in close to stand between his thighs. His palms stroke up and down your sides, then he grips your hips gently and tugs you just a little closer, catching your mouth. You bring your hands up to stroke over his lack-of-hair, feeling the prickle of it along your palm and wishing he'd grow it just a little longer again, then you lock yours fingers together at the back of his neck as you kiss and kiss and kiss.

His teeth catch your lower lip again, and he sucks and nibbles at it as you gasp and tighten your grip on him, toes curling inside your sassy-and-sexy stilettos. You wonder for a second why you're still wearing your shoes, but then his mouth begins to trail along your throat and all you can think of is the little shivers racing along your spine. When he chuckles softly and nips at your racing pulse, you blush and feel like you're caught. Sure enough, he eases his head back, smiles at you. "Nervous?"

You decide to play dumb. "What?"

He leans back in, presses a soft kiss along your carotid. "Your pulse is racing." He tugs at your elbow until your hands release, then turns his head to kiss your palm as you draw it away. "Sweaty palms."

"I…" You swallow hard, wonder why he's calling you out on this, and you can't think of anything to say as you nervously tuck your hair behind your ear.

"Calleigh," he smiles, reaching for your hand again and pressing it to his heart. You can feel the quick, insistent knock-knock-knock of it against your palm. "Me too."

The breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding rushes out in a whoosh and you chuckle softly, relieved. His smile spreads into a grin, and he pulls you close, dotting his lips along the neckline of your halter. "I've wanted you for so long," he murmurs, and you knew that already but it still thrills you to hear it. You can't think of anything to say in response, so you just nod and finally push his shirt off his shoulders.

His hands wander up your back as his tongue swirls in the hollow of your shoulder, and a moment later you feel the slow tug of your halter tie before the top of your dress loosens. He brings his hands back to your front, drawing the straps with him and your dress slinks down, pooling at your hips for just a second before falling to the floor at your feet.

Your pulse goes haywire as he sits back slightly to take in the sight of you standing there in nothing but stiletto pumps and black lace panties. His breath quickens noticeably, which pleases you, and you catch the slightest tremble in his hand as he skims it up your belly to cup your bare breast. "God, Calleigh," he breathes, and the awe in his voice is enough to make _you _tremble. His gaze flicks to yours, and you swear his eyes have gone darker. At the very least they're hotter, lustier, and you think that you could get used to him looking at you like that. He tells you that you're incredible, and you thank him, which seems odd and out of place, but you're not sure how else to respond to that particular compliment right now.

You don't have long to think about it before he ducks his head in and swirls his tongue around a hard peak, then teases it gently with his teeth. Now you're the one breathing hard, your arms locking around his neck again as he coaxes soft, polite moans out of you and sends little ripples of pleasure slithering under your skin. When he switches to the other breast and moans as he sucks you in, like this turns him on as much as it does you, your head drops back on a gasp. One of his hands is still kneading your breast, but the other slips around and cups your rear, tugging you closer, and you move onto the bed, straddling his lap as he continues to lavish attention on your breasts until you're panting hard, trying to tamp down on the lusty moans you're dying to let free but too embarrassed to release at the risk of sounding like some kind of sex-crazed hussy.

Your hands are restless, flitting over his shoulders, down his back, over his biceps. He nips you once, hard, and you gasp his name and shove his head away, finally, so you can cover his mouth with yours and kiss him hard into the mattress. One strong hand cups the back of your neck as his back hits the bed, and he moans loudly into your mouth when you grind your hips against his, his belt buckle scraping against your belly slightly as you rock once, twice, hoping to ease the wet ache between your thighs.

It only makes you hotter, though, so you sit up and reach for the buckle, tugging it free and making quick work of the button and zipper. He groans as your knuckles rub against his erection, and you glance up to find his eyes have dropped closed for a second. Wanting a moment to enjoy the sight of him, you delve your hand into his pants, slip beneath the elastic of his boxer-briefs and stroke him slowly up and down. His Adam's apple bobs, his lashes flutter. Beautiful. You catch yourself licking your lips as you trail your eyes over his nicely muscled torso, down to where he's sliding through your loose fist. And then you realize suddenly that your hand is wrapped around Eric Delko's cock and a rush of ridiculous embarrassment floods you, so you roll off and urge him, "Pants off," before you scold yourself for being silly.

You've been told – by John, with a frown, and Jake, with a cheeky grin – that you're bossy in the sack, but if Eric minds being given an order, he doesn't show it. He just sits up and leans over to tug off his shoes and socks before shucking pants and boxer-briefs and you catch his frown as he sits back up to find you reclining against the pillows and toeing off your pumps. "Hey," he admonishes lightly, lifting your foot and nipping lightly at your ankle. "Those were sexy."

You shrug, trying for casual despite the way your stomach has twisted into anxious knots again. "Well, I figured if _you_ were going to be naked…"

The repercussions of your teasing statement don't hit you until he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and reaches for your panties. Crap. He hooks his fingers into the sides and you take a deep breath as he tugs them down. And now you're naked, both of you. Calleigh Duquesne and Eric Delko and their wild sex adventures. Valera would be so pleased.

You order yourself to stop being so utterly ridiculous, but when he tugs at your knee to spread your legs, shifting as if to settle between them, you panic slightly and clamp your thighs shut. "Wait."

He does. "Okay." His fingers thread with yours. "What's wrong?"

"I…" You don't know what to tell him, because there is nothing you can say besides the truth: the idea of having him up close and personal with your naughty bits makes it hard to breathe – and not in the good ways. Maybe you should have waited after all. So you tell him simply, "Nothing," then berate yourself again: _Get it together, Duquesne!_

You relax your thighs, but he just smiles at you and nods knowingly, stretching out alongside you and leaning in to claim your lips again. After a few soothing kisses, he pulls back enough to whisper, "Still nervous?"

"I… Yes. I'm sorry. It's silly. It's just… it's you."

He smiles, but looks a little confused as he presses his lips to yours again, once, and asks, "I make you nervous?"

You nod, and try to explain. "It's just… weird? I've known you for so long, and now I'm naked with you. And I _want_ to be naked with you, but there's this part of me that keeps thinking… 'Eric Delko can see you naked right now.' So… its awkward."

He nods slightly, then grins at you and accuses teasingly, "Liar."

You are most definitely not lying, and it offends you a bit that he would thinks so, so you scowl and push him away just slightly. "What?"

"You're not nervous," he informs gently, stroking his fingers through your hair. "You're embarrassed.

"I-" You realize suddenly that he's right. It's not nerves you're feeling, its anxiety lined with fear and that niggling feeling that creeps up your spine and makes you want to hide yourself. Embarrassment. "Yes."

"Don't be," he insists quietly, letting his mouth fall on your throat and suck slow, warm kisses there. "You're incredible. Unbelievable. But how about…" He lifts his head to meet your eyes again as one hand coasts down your belly and tucks itself between your thighs, stroking gently over slick skin. "…I just touch for a while. That better?"

You nod, because yes, it is so much better, and then he dips his mouth to yours and circles his fingertips over your clit and you sigh, relaxing into the attention. Your mouths meet over and over again as his fingertips slide over you, and there's a tight knot of pleasure twisting low in your belly, making your thighs tremble again. When he slides two fingers into you and plants his thumb against your clit, his easy rhythm has you moaning softly into his mouth. He pulls back, watches you, and you feel incredibly exposed, so you turn your face into his neck.

He'll have none of it, though, and he proves it by ducking his face around yours and nudging it back up. "Don't. Let me watch you. Let me see how good this feels." You nod and comply, but you shut your eyes, telling yourself it's to focus on the pleasure he's coaxing out of you. When he slides a third finger in gently and begins to tell you how wet you are, how much he can't wait to be inside you, you think you might die.

His voice is rough and gravelly, sexy, and you have to press your lips together hard to keep from moaning. He's on to you, though, and he nips at your earlobe before breathing to you, "Don't hold back. Let me hear you. I want to hear how good you feel."

When he curls his fingers inside you, you can't help but obey. Your jaw drops open on a full-throated moan of pleasure, and one hand fists the bedspread, the other finding his thigh and gripping hard. You're going to come, soon, violently, and he's asking you to open your eyes, to let him see you come and you think the top of your head is about to blow off, so you don't. "That's it, Cal, come on," he urges, and his fingers move faster in you, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. "Let me see those beautiful eyes. Let me in, Calleigh."

That knot of pleasure is pulsing waves of heat through your gut, and you can tell it's about to let loose, pinging bliss through your body like a pinball, so you manage, somehow, to open your eyes. His gaze is hot on you, on your face, and so intense that it actually rockets you closer to the edge. When he changes the angle just slightly, you come hard, your whole body shuddering as your nails dig into his thigh, uninhibited cries of pleasure tumbling from you, and your eyes never leave his.

You start to come down, and you're not the only one breathing heavily. Eric is right there with you, just from the sight of you. Much to your disappointment, his fingers leave you – rather abruptly, to be honest – but his body is covering yours a moment later and he insists, "I have to have you. Right now. _Right now_."

You nod, and though you're still fighting to catch your breath, you reach down between your bodies and guide him to your entrance. "Don't be embarrassed," he murmurs, grinning, and you'd blush if you weren't still so flushed from your orgasm. He moans as he sinks in, sliding easily despite his size, which – sweet Jesus – is perfect, almost a little _too_ big right now while you're still tight from your orgasm. In fact, it's enough that you quake a little aftershock, and if he'd started thrusting, you'd probably be coming again already, but he hasn't yet. He's resting his forehead against yours, panting, and you can tell from the slight trembling in his biceps that it's taking effort, so he must be doing it for you.

You breathe his name and he claims your lips in a kiss that is wet, and heated, and needy. "You feel so good," he tells you, and you arch your hips against him to encourage him to move. And boy does he, starting an easy rhythm that makes you both pant and moan. You can tell he's trying to go slow because he keeps changing pace, speeding up, then reining himself back in, and you murmur to him to just let go, don't hold back, you can do it again later. He picks up pace immediately, thrusting quick and hard and its delicious, so good, and soon you're coming again, hard, and the feel of him thrusting in and out of you as your muscles clutch at him just makes it better. Pleasure swamps you, vibrates in every nerve ending and you feel too good to be embarrassed about anything now, too good to keep from shouting his name and rutting back against him as you come yet again, and you can hear him grunting your name over and over and over again before he finally thrusts hard and spills in you.

When he collapses on top of you, you're both panting hard, sucking in oxygen like you're starved for it, and it takes you a minute to realize that you actually _are_ starved for oxygen. He's catching his breath, and you're not, so you twist underneath him, groping for the inhaler you left on your nightstand – good thinking, that. You shake it, suck in a hit, and your lungs loosen. A little cough, and you can breathe again, so you drop the inhaler back to the nightstand with a clatter. He shifts as if to pull out of you and you immediately clutch his hips, shaking your head.

"No. Stay," you insist, smiling as he settles over you again and presses a kiss to your mouth.

"You okay?"

"Mmhmm. Just… haven't really had any cardio since the fire."

He snickers and buries his face in your neck, his shoulders shaking with giddy laughter. You laugh with him, until his humor subsides and he starts planting damp kisses against your shoulder. When he tries to pull out again a minute later, you let him, shivering slightly when your sweaty belly is exposed to the cool air of the room. He must be thinking the same thing, because he tugs at your bedspread, and the two of you climb beneath, Eric pulling you close as soon as you're settled.

"Still embarrassed?" he asks, stealing another kiss from your mouth.

"Mmm. Not at all," you insist, pillowing your head on his chest and tracing hieroglyphs on his skin with your fingertip. "Don't know why I ever was."

He chuckles, holds you a little tighter and you think that you are incredibly lucky to have such a beautiful, affectionate, _incredible_ lover. And then he murmurs that it's good you're over your embarrassment, because he wants to lick you until you scream for him, and you turn your face into his chest and snicker, cheeks flaming again. "Eric!" you scold, and he laughs, strokes your back and concedes.

"Maybe in the morning, then. Wouldn't want you to have to use that inhaler again so soon."

You shake your head, press kisses across his chest, then settle in again. It's quiet for a minute, but it's a comfortable silence. Afterglow. Your legs are still tingling with fading pleasure, and you can hear the thump-thump of his heart rate as it continues to even out. You're starting to doze when you hear his voice again.

"Calleigh?"

"Mm?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"The happiest." If you were a little more awake, you might have been able to resist murmuring something so saccharine, but, well, you're half gone, so you the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them.

And too-sweet or not, you mean it. Valentine's Day has officially been redeemed.


End file.
